Red Letter
by Sierra Janeway
Summary: Patrick Jane and the CBI team are assigned to a high profile double homicide with dozens of complex motives, and an additional young victim whose situation captures the attention and emotions of a certain consultant...
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: All characters and such belong to CBS. I own the new characters and the new plot.

Author's Note: My first Mentalist fanfic! Yay! (Although I know some of you are going to hate me for posting yet another new story while some of the others haven't been updated. In my defense, I just updated my CSI: Miami story "Considerations"!)

Great new show, so of course I've been badgered with fanfic ideas. Here's the first! Hope you enjoy!! Reviews are always greatly appreciated.

* * *

**Red Letter**

Patrick Jane poked his head in the door of the insanely affluent home after Teresa Lisbon and a group of local cops.

"Bodies were found this morning by the husband's coworker. He was supposed to head up a finance meeting and when he didn't show his buddy came looking for him," the head detective was saying. "Found the wife lying in the living room here and ran off to call 911. Swears he didn't touch anything but the door handle."

A coroner was kneeling next to the woman's body. "Single gunshot wound to the temple. No defensive wounds."

"Pretty small wound."

"I'm thinking .22 caliber, but I'll have to wait for ballistics to confirm it."

"Do you have an approximate time of death?" Lisbon asked.

"Lack of rigor and liver temp indicate approximately five hours ago."

She did a quick mental calculation. "Eight o'clock this morning, right before the husband would have been leaving for work."

Another detective chimed in, "The place has been ransacked. There are several expensive paintings missing, along with a shelf's worth of gold statues."

"How did the husband die?" Patrick asked as he looked around.

"Bullet to the back of the head. He was getting his briefcase ready for work."

Lisbon frowned at the lead detective, a short, slightly balding man in his forties named Chris Mullens. "Why is CBI involved?"

A young crime tech with short curly brown hair and wearing square glasses answered, "Husband's name is Edward Randall."

Patrick whistled.

Teresa looked a little shocked. "Edward Randall? The sports car millionaire?"

"Yep, that's the guy. Got his start up money from his oil-rich father and started designing cars right out of high school. They say he was working on something that was gonna blow the Porsche right outta the water. The guy had enemies."

"So you're saying this could be a lot more than a simple robbery." Teresa had turned back to the lead detective.

"Exactly. This has to be handled very carefully. That's why we called you guys."

"How much have you processed so far?"

"Not much. We've only been here for an hour."

Patrick had barely left the doorway but had carefully scanned the room. "Odd not to take out your target first."

"The wife might have been in his way. She could identify him. He had to take her out."

"That's true, but the sound of a gunshot would have brought the husband running, ruining any chance of surprising him. Why make your job any harder? If you surprise him, odds are he won't fight back. Plus, you leave the wife alive and you have leverage."

Lisbon mulled over Patrick's words. "Ok…" She looked over her shoulder at Mullens. "How about the wife? Did she have any enemies?"

"No. Lidya Randall was the exception among rich young wives. She did a lot of volunteer work in the inner city, soup kitchens mostly. She also had a pet project in the area, a shelter she founded for abused women."

"Let's check out college and high school connections to make sure."

"Got it."

"Do we have a time of death for the husband?"

"Not yet."

"Let's make that a priority. It could give us the definite target if this actually was more than just a robbery."

"Consider it done."

"Were there any witnesses? Housekeeper, neighbor…?"

"Neighbors are too far to have heard or seen anything and Lidya always insisted on doing her own housekeeping."

"Ok. Let me see where the husband was killed."

"This way." Mullens gestured up the small set of stairs into the dining room and to the left.

"Jane, are you coming?"

Patrick glanced up from squinting at the woman's body. "No, I think I'll keep looking around out here."

"Try to stay out of trouble."

He responded with a patented Patrick Jane smile, to which she rolled her eyes.

He laughed silently to himself. Taking another quick look around the room, he decided there wasn't anything more he could gather and took the small set of stairs up the next level, but to the right instead. He passed through a small doorway and found himself in a large, very clean kitchen with gleaming cherry cupboards, forest green marble countertops, a black marble tile floor, and an enormous silver sink. There was a fairly tall stepstool next to the sink.

Patrick moved in closer for a better look and saw that one of the sink's divided sections was half-filled with sudsy water and several place settings worth of dishes. A white porcelain plate trimmed with gold sat on the counter nearby with a fluffy beige towel still partially wrapped around it. Directly above it, a cupboard door was opened to reveal a stack of identical plates on the middle shelf. He took everything in, and then stepped back to judge the stepstool's height. He looked at it, and then the open cupboard, and then back again. After three more times, he stepped out of the kitchen and craned his neck around the shelves full of knickknacks that stood guard at each side of the steps.

The coroner was just zipping a body bag over Lydia.

"Excuse me," Patrick interrupted. "How tall is Mrs. Randall?"

The man looked up at him, somewhat puzzled. "About five foot seven. Why—"

"And Mr. Randall?"

"Six foot one. Why—"

"Thank you." He ducked back into the kitchen and shook his head at the stool in disbelief and selected Lisbon's name from the contacts list on his phone.

"Lisbon," she answered after one ring.

"Could you please ask Detective Mullens if his team has processed the kitchen yet?"

He heard some background conversation and then she came back on the line. "He says they've only done once-overs of the rooms that didn't have a body in them. Did you find something?"

"Maybe. I'll let you know in a few." He closed the phone and moved to the center of the kitchen and began to revolve very slowly, looking for anything out of the ordinary. It still bothered him how very clean the house was.

After his second revolution, he noticed something small on the floor by a leg of the heavy wooden table pushed against the wall near the doorway. He crouched down and squinted at it. At first it appeared to be a nick from moving the table, but he realized the angle of strike made it impossible. It had to be ricochet from a bullet.

He stood back up very quickly and studied the wall behind him. The path of the bullet would put it right into that wall, but there was nothing. No hole, no dent, the wallpaper wasn't even torn. Meaning the bullet had been absorbed by something.

That's when he noticed a tiny smear of scarlet near the doorway that led out of the kitchen and into the next room.

He hurried into the next room, an entertainment room with a giant TV and huge leather recliners that he wouldn't have noticed if it wasn't for the infinitesimal smears of blood on the lower side of one of the backrests. The recliners were near the back wall of the room, where he found a semi-hidden sliding door with blood under the handle. He nudged the door open with his elbow and found himself in a small hallway. A doorway to the right revealed a bathroom, and a doorway to the left revealed a laundry room. The blood trail continued on the handle of the door at the far end of the hallway, which opened into the four-car garage. He found more blood on the top of the front license plate of the couple's silver Mercedes. He kept going, headed towards the far wall of the garage.

There he found something very strange. The far left corner was walled off into a windowless room made of white plywood with a cheap white man door like one would find in a commercial garage. He stood before it and made note of the blood smears on the back part of the handle. He wrapped the end of his jacket sleeve around the handle and tried to open the door.

It was locked. He debated the wisdom of calling Lisbon or the local detectives for about thirty seconds before he stepped back, took aim, and delivered a powerful kick to the door in the area of the handle.

The door burst open and banged hard against the back wall, sending a few splinters of the doorway flying. Patrick Jane peered inside and found a shocking sight.

A young girl, probably eight or nine years old, lay on a filthy mattress on the cement floor. She had dark brown hair and lightly tanned skin and was clothed in a ratty blue T-shirt that was too small, a worn brown skirt that had been rolled at the waist several times, and an old pair of dirty red flip-flops. She was curled tightly into the fetal position, hands clasped over her abdomen. Her big brown eyes were half closed as she moaned softly.

In a split second he was kneeling by her side, adrenaline running high. "Sweetie, my name is Patrick Jane and I'm here to help you, ok?"

If she understood, she didn't say. Her soft moan was fading away and her eyes continued to drift closed.

"No, no you need to stay with me." Blood oozed from under her hands and onto her shirt. He ripped off his jacket and gently moved her hands to cover the wound and apply pressure. "_I need paramedics in here now!!_" he yelled as loud as was humanly possible before he realized they were too far away to be heard. Fumbling with his phone, he managed to operate it with one hand.

As soon as he heard it click through, he yelled, "Lisbon!"

"Jane, I can hear—"

"Lisbon, I have a child here! She's been shot! We're in the garage! I need paramedics out here now!"

"Oh my god—we're on our way!"

He snapped the phone closed and tossed it aside. With his free hand, he gently tapped the girl's grimy, tear-stained cheek. "Come on sweetie, stay with me. You have to stay awake for now, ok? They're coming, don't worry…"

Unbidden, a tear slipped down his own cheek.

* * *

Author's Note: I hope you've enjoyed it so far. I'll attempt to get another chapter out next week, but it all depends on my schedule. Reviews are a good way to let me know what you liked/didn't like and what you'd like to see in the future. Thanks everyone!!


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

Disclaimer: All characters and such belong to CBS. I own the new characters and the new plot.

Author's Note: At long last, an update! I know, I know, I stink at updating. I'll try to do better from now on. :) Hope you enjoy!!

* * *

**Red Letter**

Patrick didn't know how long he knelt with the little girl, his cheeks damp with tears he desperately tried to repress along with the memories of his own daughter, the girl's blood oozing onto his hands as he held his jacket tight against her stomach, her eyes closed and beads of sweat shining on her forehead, her breathing slow and shallow. The tiny plywood prison seemed to close in and echoed with the sound of his breath, too loud and obnoxious compared to the child's. It felt like an eternity before he heard sirens and running feet and Lisbon burst in behind them with Detective Mullens.

"How is she?" The words tumbled out of Teresa's mouth in a concerned blur.

"I don't know, I don't know," Patrick replied, frantic.

Teresa knelt next to the two of them and pressed two fingers to the little girl's neck. "Not good," she mumbled.

"Paramedics are here!" Mullens announced, and he quickly stepped from the doorway to allow them access. A young woman with a blonde ponytail and a young Hispanic man hurried into the tiny space, kits in hand.

"Ok, I need everyone else out of here, NOW!" the woman yelled.

Teresa scurried for the exit before realizing Patrick wasn't moving. She stepped back and grabbed his elbow. "Jane!"

He stared at the child, and her blood on his jacket under his hands.

"JANE! Move! Now!"

The urgency in her voice finally roused him, and she was able to drag him out of the room.

They stood in the garage, listening to the mumbled voices of the paramedics as they worked on the girl. Another paramedic brought a stretcher and after a few minutes the three of them wheeled the girl from the tiny space, tubes and wires trailing from her frail body.

Patrick Jane could only stare.

* * *

Teresa Lisbon watched the consultant with concern. His cheeks were obviously damp.

"Jane? You ok?"

At that, he seemed to snap out of a reverie, albeit with a sad, bitter edge to his attitude. "An abused child has just been shot in the stomach, Lisbon. Of course I'm perfectly fine. No big deal," he answered in his quick, quiet way.

"I didn't mean it like—"

"I know."

She bit down softly on her lower lip. "I'll see what the paramedics have to say," she replied, and she gently rubbed his arm before she hurried after them.

"How is she?" she asked, falling into a fast walk next to the third paramedic.

"She has a small gunshot wound to the lower abdomen and she's lost blood. Her pulse is weak and she's barely conscious. We're not sure if the bullet hit any organs. We're rushing her to surgery now."

"Do you think she'll make it?"

The man was climbing into the back of the ambulance. "At this point agent, it's really too early to tell."

She fumbled in her jacket for a card, which she thrust into his hand. "Pass this along to her doctor and have them call me the _second_ they know _anything_, ok?"

"Yes ma'am." He yanked the ambulance doors shut as the siren started up again and the vehicle sped out of the driveway.

She stood watching it for a moment before she hurried back into the garage, scrolling through the contacts list on her cell phone. She found the number she wanted, hit send, and pressed the phone to her ear impatiently. It rang twice before someone picked up. "Van Pelt."

"Van Pelt, are Cho and Rigsby there with you?"

"Yeah, they are."

"Ok, I need all three of you at this crime scene NOW. 1138 Oceantide Circle."

"We're on our way." There was a slight click as she hung up, obviously sensing the extreme urgency in her boss' voice.

* * *

It took the rest of the team slightly under twenty minutes to arrive at the crime scene and assemble in the garage with Jane and Lisbon.

"At this point we still don't know who the target was, or the motive," Teresa continued in her explanation to the team members just joining them. "But thanks to Jane we now know we have two crimes to investigate: the murdered couple and the little girl who appears to have been held here illegally. Rigsby, Jane, and myself will take the house and look into the couple's background. Cho, Van Pelt, I want you two to process the girl's room and see what you can learn."

"I want to work on the girl's case," Jane interrupted. When Teresa opened her mouth to protest, he added, "I found her." His eyes seemed to dare her to mention his emotional reaction to the others.

She stood looking back at him, half stern, half understanding, until she finally relented with, "Fine. Cho, you're with me."

Cho, Van Pelt, and Rigsby shared a look before Cho replied, "You got it boss," and gave Jane a slightly curious glance as he headed into the house with Rigsby and Lisbon.

Left with Jane, Grace Van Pelt crossed her arms and frowned at him. "You gonna tell me what that was all about?"

"Nope. You gonna help me with the room or stand here asking questions?" He turned and headed into the plywood structure.

She sighed, uncrossed her arms, and, shaking her head, followed. She entered the room a few steps behind him. "So this is where you found the little girl?"

"Yes…" He stood just a little farther inside, slowly taking in all the little details he was famous for noticing.

Grace frowned again, much more deeply and angrily this time. "_This_ is where they were keeping her?" She didn't try to keep the indignation out of her voice. The windowless room, constructed of cheap plywood and drywall plastered with a thin, sloppy coat of white primer, was about thirteen feet long and seven feet wide. The furnishings consisted of a dirty mattress, now also stained with blood, a tattered blanket, a plastic tub with wrinkled, stiff pieces of clothing hanging off its edge, an old jean jacket hanging from a nail in the wall, and a pile of old fast food wrappers heaped in one corner, like the nest of a giant rat.

Patrick Jane could only nod.

"How could she live like this?"

"She wasn't living, Grace, she was scraping by, day by day, in constant fear. You smell that?"

"Old fast food and…ammonia?"

He indicated a large, faded yellowish stain on the mattress with a sweep of his hand. "She's been wetting the bed, and for quite some time."

The young auburn-haired woman shook her head slowly. "So if there was any doubt as to her being here against her will…God, this is absolutely disgusting. Poor kid…they're practically in a palace, probably with caviar in the cupboard, and she's out in a corner of the garage being fed McDonald's."

"Not fed," Jane replied, pinching a wrapper between thumb and forefinger and holding it up for his colleague's scrutiny. "See the dark mystery stain on this end, and the wad of gum on this end?"

She let out an incredulous cough. "She's been eating out of the garbage. This gets sicker and sicker."

The consultant's face tightened, but he didn't comment and kept looking around.

"Lisbon said you thought she'd been doing the household chores?"

"Yes…stepstool in the kitchen next to a sink full of unfinished dishes. Neither of the Randalls were short enough to have needed it."

"Child maid then."

"Quite likely. It's a far bigger problem than anyone wants to admit. Most of them are brought in on work visas with wealthy African or Middle Eastern families and their work disguised as chores, with a small stipend being sent to the child's poverty-stricken family back home. This girl didn't appear to either of those nationalities, more like Eastern European. I haven't heard of the same situation with child servants from that area, but that's not to say it doesn't happen."

Van Pelt's phone echoed against the walls with its shrill ring. She snapped it open and had it to her ear in a fraction of a second. "Van Pelt." She listened for a moment, then replied, "That fits with what Jane and I have come up with. Yeah, I'll have him fill you in later. Ok, bye." She clicked the device shut. "That was Lisbon. The crime scene analysts finished fingerprinting all the cleaning supplies in the house." She paused before adding, "The only prints they found belong to a child."

"Thought as much…" He was now scrutinizing the tub. "She washed her clothes here. Unbelievable…"

With Jane occupied at the other end of the room, Grace shut the door to the room to examine the area behind it. The smooth, cold concrete was bare save for a few drops of blood, and nothing hung on the wall back there.

The she saw the back of the door. She was shocked into momentary silence.

Finally, she managed, "Jane."

He turned around and saw her gesturing weakly with two fingers for her to come.

"What is it?" He stood next to her and she simply pointed.

On the back of the cheap wooden man-door, painted cheaply with the same white primer as the rest of the place, were rows upon rows upon rows of orderly scratch marks, starting out larger on the bottom of the door and getting smaller the more there were.

Grace turned to face him, her forehead creased in shocked dismay. "She's been counting the days."

­­­­­­­­­­­­­

* * *

Author's Note: Hope you enjoyed, and sorry again for the delay. I'm now on vacation, so here's hoping for an update much sooner than usual. Apologies for the shortness as well—the next chapter will hopefully have much more substance to it.


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: All characters and such belong to CBS. I own the new characters and the new plot._

Author's Note: Sorry this took so long!! I would have uploaded it even sooner, but I made myself wait until I could update all my stories at once. Thank you so much for reading!

* * *

**Red Letter**

The bodies had been removed from the house and the lab techs had finished photographing, printing, documenting, bagging, and tagging everything in the house. Lisbon had Cho and Van Pelt collect and document everything in the little girl's room. The crime lab techs were excellent at their jobs, but there was an unspoken agreement amongst the members of the CBI team that discovering the girl's identity and solving her imprisonment was too important a task to leave to anyone else.

Patrick Jane entered the living room where the rest of the CBI team was gathered to discuss their next move.

"At first, robbery seems to be the obvious motive," Teresa Lisbon was saying. "But the more time I spend here, the more I think it was an afterthought, if not a flimsy attempt at a cover up. Some of the most valuable paintings are still here, and there's something like $12,000 in Mr. Randall's sock drawer, of all places. Several expensive pieces of Mrs. Randall's jewelry are even still on her dresser."

Her coworkers nodded thoughtfully.

"We know that Mrs. Randall was lying when she told people that she insisted on doing all her own cleaning," she continued. "We should check to see if she was also lying about some of those volunteer hours. And if it turns out she wasn't volunteering when she said she was, we need to know what she was actually up to. She may have made some less than pleasant connections."

"What about Mr. Randall?" Cho asked.

"Go through his phone records, documents, voice mails, text messages, faxes, e-mails, letters, _everything_ with a fine-tooth comb. A bad business deal, a jilted associate, who knows what could have resulted in someone being angry enough to kill him. Also, check out anyone who ever worked here for the couple. Maybe they had a gardener at one point. Anything that could help give us insight into these people would be a huge asset. And it just might help pin down motive."

Grace Van Pelt frowned. "Do we even know who the actual target was yet?"

Her boss shook her head and sighed. "No. All we have right now are theories."

"Such as?"

"Theory one: Mr. Randall was the target. Motive there would likely be business or finance related, but don't rule anything out. Theory two: Mrs. Randall was the target. Motive there is a bit trickier, I'm thinking related to one of the vices of bored, young, rich housewives: credit card debt or fraud, drugs, maybe a fling. We need to go over all her correspondences with equal attention. Theory number three: The couple was targeted, and the theft was either a crime of opportunity or the items were taken to make this _look_ like a robbery. Motive…I'm not really sure. Like I said, be _thorough_. I don't care how unimportant a lead seems, follow it through to the end."

"Theory number four," Patrick Jane added, stepping to the front of the group. "The little girl was targeted."

Everyone looked at each other rather than Jane, uncertain due to the way he had obviously been seriously affected by her imprisonment and shooting.

"Why would someone want to kill her?" Cho finally ventured.

"Extortion gone wrong, attempted kidnap and ransom…not to mention, if you remember from your history books, that the servants hear everything."

"So she could have overheard something she shouldn't have?"

"Precisely."

"Focus on Mr. and Mrs. Randall separately first," Lisbon interjected. "Then we'll work our way down to the other two theorized targets. Jane, can I talk with you for a minute?"

He nodded, and they stepped off to the side as the rest of the team headed outside to get back in their vehicles to return to the office.

"I need to know if I can count on you to be objective on this case," she stated bluntly when everyone else was out of earshot. "What happened to that little girl is terrible, but if we want to help her, we're going to have to stay focused and do our jobs."

"By we you mean me."

"All right, yes. You need to stay focused and do your job."

"I'm sorry that I can't be as detached and emotionless as you, Lisbon."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Is this case even different to you? Does it really matter that it's a little girl, or is this just another case to solve to keep your quota up?"

"Jane, how can you even say that?!" Lisbon retorted angrily. "This is what I mean: you're letting this get to you."

He seemed about to throw back an equally testy reply when he paused and lowered his voice. "I'm sorry. You're right."

They looked at each other for a minute before Lisbon spoke again. "Your theory is valid, let's…let's just focus elsewhere for now, ok? She's in good hands."

He nodded, not convinced but wanting to stay on the case.

"I know you want to help her. So do I. What these people did her is horrific and immoral and just plain wrong. But now they're dead and it's our job to find out who did it, no matter how disgusted we might be with them."

* * *

Back at CBI headquarters, Cho began digging through Mr. Randall's life with the proverbial fine-tooth comb. The sheer amount of material was staggering: the man had multiple phones (cellular and otherwise), PDAs, e-mail addresses, not to mention a mountain of physical paper files. At the moment, he could only work with the immediately accessible data. The rest of the records would have to wait for a subpoena to come through, a process that was going to take Lisbon some time. Mr. Randall had some extremely high profile clients and associates.

Grace Van Pelt leaned over his desk. "Anything?"

"Not so far…for a wealthy businessman he seems to have kept his nose clean."

"That's weird."

"Tell me about it."

"I've got something," Rigsby called from his desk as he set his phone down.

His two coworkers looked up, eager for some kind of progress.

Rigsby flipped through a planner from the crime scene as well as his own notebook. "Ok, so Mrs. Randall has written in here seven times in the last two months when she supposedly was at that women's shelter. I just finished talking to the program director there, and the last time he remembers her actually being there was a little over three months ago."

"So what was she really doing all that time?"

"I'm looking, but there's nothing else she's written that gives me any clue. Nothing from her e-mails, either. I'm waiting on Lisbon for a subpoena for her phone records."

"Aren't we all," Cho murmured. "What about you Van Pelt? You come up with anything on past employees?"

She sighed in frustration. "Nope. I've been through all the financial documents we have on hand, and I've called every service agency in the county. No one has a record of any requests from the Randalls. Of course, to be certain, I'm going to need to have a look at the rest of their financials and bank statements and that's—"

"—going to take a subpoena," Cho and Rigsby finished for her.

"Exactly."

"What are Lisbon and Jane up to?"

"She called me a little while ago," Grace said, glancing at her watch. "She that they were going to interview some of the 'neighbors'." When she said the word 'neighbors', she made quotes in the air with her fingers. "If living a quarter of a mile away still qualifies you as a neighbor."

* * *

"Would you two like some tea?"

"No, thank you, Mrs. Galloway," Lisbon responded, taking a seat on the woman's overstuffed, expensive leather couch.

"Please, call me Charlene." The young woman bustled about with a white china teapot edged with gold leaf.

"I would love some tea Charlene," Patrick Jane said, flashing her his signature grin.

Lisbon gave him a look but he merely shrugged.

Charlene Galloway seemed genuinely pleased to fix him a cup. "There you are. It's so lovely to meet you, although it is under terrible circumstances. Those poor people, shot right in their own home."

"Did you know the Randalls well?"

"I suppose as well as anyone can around here. We can't exactly talk over the fence."

"Did you talk often?"

"I wouldn't say often, but with some frequency. Lydia and I were in much the same situation: probably too young to have married, with intensely driven workaholic husbands." She smiled over her own teacup as she brushed a long lock of chestnut hair off her shoulder. "That's not to say I begrudge Walter his business, and I'm certain Lydia didn't begrudge Edward his either. It takes work to live like this, and I greatly appreciate being able to stay home and raise my boys. But by the same token, I'm not quite either one of us was ready to be a full-time high-society wife."

"You didn't grow up with money?" Jane asked sipping lightly at his tea.

"Not nearly as much as Lydia," Charlene replied. "But at any rate, growing up privileged is quite different from being in charge of such a household. It takes an adjustment."

Lisbon nodded, not really agreeing but wanting to seem polite. "Out of curiosity, where are your boys?"

"Oh our nanny Rosie took them out for the day." She turned a picture frame around on the glass coffee table in front of them so that the two CBI affiliates could see it. "Charles is fourteen and Wesley is nine."

"They're very handsome young men."

"Thank you."

"You have a nanny?"

"Yes, she's wonderful. I don't know how parents raise children without one! Especially more than one boy! I had forgotten how much energy they have."

"Did the Randalls have household help?"

"Oh no, certainly not."

"Why not?"

"Lydia didn't think it was appropriate for someone her age to pawn off easy tasks like dusting on someone else, even for pay."

Lisbon watched Jane's fingers tighten around his teacup, but thankfully he said nothing.

"Really?"

"I know, it is a little ridiculous, isn't it? All that money, that big house, and she wouldn't hire anyone."

"Not even for the lawn?"

"Like I said, ridiculous. Although Edward did enjoy tinkering with the lawn equipment and greatly praised the virtues of a self-groomed lawn, I didn't think it was a good idea. I always told him that he needed to get someone else to do it because one of these days he was going injure those lovely hands of his that create such wonderful cars." She nodded knowingly.

Lisbon nodded again, not sure what else to do, and steered the questions back towards motive. "Did you know of anyone with a grudge against Mr. or Mrs. Randall, someone who might want to harm them?"

"Goodness sakes, no."

"Was Mr. Randall having trouble at work? Was he…pursuing a relationship outside of his marriage?"

Charlene feigned shock that they would even ask such a question. "No, and of course he wasn't! He was madly in love with Lydia!"

"Did Lydia feel the same way?"

"Of course she did! My goodness, how can you people even think that way?!"

"It's our job, ma'am," Teresa explained patiently. "We have to consider all possible motives if we want to find out who is responsible for their deaths."

Mrs. Galloway calmed down some. "I suppose that's true…"

"Was there _anything_," Lisbon pressed. "_Anything_ that seemed off to you about them in the past few weeks?"

The other woman considered the question carefully, leaning back against the couch opposite them and bringing the teacup slowly to her lips.

"Well," she finally answered, slow and deliberate. "Lydia has seemed a bit unsettled lately, but all she would ever say when I asked her about was that she'd had a bad transaction and was trying to work it out. But she wouldn't give me details, so I have no idea what kind of transaction she meant. Also, I think I remember Edward saying at a dinner party a few weeks ago that one of his higher-ups was giving him grief about some little detail on the Panther X."

"Panther X?"

"Edward's newest car, the one he's working on right now."

Lisbon scribbled in her notebook. After a minute or so she stood and asked, "Is there anything else you can think of?"

"I don't think so…please promise me you'll figure out who did this awful thing to such wonderful people."

"We will do everything we can," Lisbon told her. "Thank you for your time and hospitality."

"Good tea," Jane added, leaving his cup on the coffee table.

They made their way back out to Lisbon's car. "What do you think?" she asked him, searching her pocket for her keys.

"She seemed to be telling the truth," he shrugged. "Besides, the wealthy are never even as close to their friends as the rest of us are to our enemies. I really don't think she knows much of anything about the Randalls."

Teresa nodded. "She did give us two interesting motives to pursue. Of course, they could turn out to be nothing, but it's nice to have something to work with until the subpoenas come through." Just as she found her keys, her cell phone rang. She fumbled for it, and managed to snatch it up on the third ring. "Hello?"

Patrick Jane watched her face as the person on the other end greeted her and began explaining something. Fear, replaced by surprise, replaced by a calm hope.

"Yes? Ok. Ok. Yes. That's good, that's…really good. Thank you for calling me. Yes. Thank you."

"Well?"

She gave him a small, encouraging smile. "That was the hospital. The little girl made it through surgery just fine and she's expected to make a full recovery. She's awake and the doctor said we can speak with her tomorrow morning."

He let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. _She's ok._

* * *

Author's note: I hope you enjoyed the update. Sorry it's so short, but hopefully I'll have a ton more plot development in the next chapter. Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

_Disclaimer: All characters and such belong to CBS. I own the new characters and the new plot._

**Summary: **Patrick Jane and the CBI team are assigned to a high profile double homicide with dozens of complex motives, and an additional young victim whose situation captures the attention and emotions of a certain consultant...

**Chronology: **No specific time; current season possibly

**Pairings: **Jane/Lisbon

**Rating: **T for situations and probably some mild cursing.

**Author's Note:** As you may have noticed, I've updated my pre-story info format. Change can be good. I hope this will be helpful both to my wonderful readers and myself.

Yet again, I apologize for how long it has taken me to get off my lazy butt and actually type up a new chapter. I'm in the process of creating an update schedule so that I only work on two or so stories at a time. Hopefully this will feel less overwhelming and encourage me to write more often. Of course, I still have my college schedule and homework to contend with, so I can't promise anything. But I do think it should make a difference. Also, I hope I'm staying in character for the most part, especially as I move towards some bigger Jane/Lisbon moments.

Thanks for your continued readership!!

* * *

**Red Letter**

The next morning, Teresa Lisbon and Patrick Jane headed out to the hospital after Lisbon updated the rest of the team to the information they had gleaned from their interview with Mrs. Galloway.

Only a few minutes down the highway, Jane impatiently drummed his fingers on the passenger side window. Teresa Lisbon glanced over for a moment before she returned her gaze to the road in front of them. "Jane, I'm already pushing the speed limit."

"I know, I know."

"And the fact that she's awake and able to be talked to means that she's doing very well for someone who was just shot."

"I know."

"And the doctors assured us—"

"—that she'd make a full recovery. Yes, I remember."

"Look, Jane. I don't want to keep bringing this up…"

"I promised you that I'd be objective, Lisbon. But she's still just a kid. Besides, she's the only one who's seen the face of our killer and lived to tell about it."

"That's true, but don't pin too much on it. She's only eight years old, and she'd just been shot. She's probably terrified."

"You know I know better than to start firing off questions at a traumatized child."

"Ok, ok." Lisbon glanced at him once again, allowing silence to permeate the vehicle for several minutes before she asked a question. "Do you want to talk about this?"

"About what?" Jane's voice was flat.

"Jane, you know as well as I do that this isn't just any kid. You wouldn't act like this with just any kid, but this is a little girl," she said, emphasizing the last two words.

"I see. You're insinuating that I'm getting too involved with and attached to a child who reminds of my own child before she was killed."

"Are you?" she asked quietly.

He turned to the window. "Just drive."

* * *

Rigsby and Cho entered the lobby of the soaring glass and steel structure that was the headquarters of Ventus Motors, the late Mr. Randall's sports car empire. A young redheaded secretary with immaculately polished turquoise nails held up one lacquered finger when they approached her desk, continuing to talk to the microphone on her small black headpiece in a vaguely Southern accent.

"No, I cannot tell you anything about Mr. Randall…No sir, I was not given any information…No, our stocks should be fine…No sir, I do not have experience in stock trading, that is simply what I was told—"

They showed her their badges and her mouth formed a silent 'oh'. "Sir, you'll have to call back at a later time…Sir, I'm sorry—" The abrupt way she left the conversation clued them in that she'd been hung up on. "Sorry about that. What can I do for you gentlemen?"

"We need to see Mr. Randall's boss," Cho said.

"What's this about?"

"We're investigating Mr. Randall's murder."

"Oh, thank goodness. Please catch whoever did this—Mr. Randall was such a sweet, wonderful, smart man."

"That's why we need to talk to his boss."

"Mr. Randall didn't have a boss. Ventus Motors was his own empire."

"We were told he recently had an argument with one of his higher-ups."

She looked confused for a moment, then her face brightened in recognition. "Oh, you must mean Mr. Trevor Willis."

"Who's he?" Rigsby asked.

"He gave Mr. Randall the advice and guidance for the company back when he was just starting out. Now he's his biggest investor. He's not his boss, but he's as close to a boss as anybody could be to Mr. Randall. Same amount of influence," she smiled.

Cho nodded impatiently. "We're going to need to speak with him. Immediately, if possible."

"He's in a meeting, but I know he'll want to help you. Just let me give him a call." She pressed a button on the phone receiver on her desk and sat back to wait for it to ring through in her headset.

The CBI agents waited patiently as she spoke to the man and assured them that he would join them shortly. After several minutes of waiting, Rigsby asked no one in particular, "Ventus…what's that supposed to mean?"

"Ventus is Latin for wind," answered a voice from behind them. They turned to see a tall older man with thin light grey hair and beard in a dark suit. "Which is what Edward intended his cars to drive like. I'm Trevor Willis." He shook hands with both of them. "What can I do for California's distinguished officers of the law?"

Cho wasted no time. "Answer some questions."

"I'd be happy to. Edward was one of my oldest and dearest friends. I still can't believe that he's dead." The man raised a hand to rub at his face. "I've been talking to dozens, maybe hundreds of people all morning, trying to explain what's going on. But I don't know much. From what I hear, you gentlemen don't have much either. It's just such a tragedy…" He trailed off, clearly emotional.

"You two were friends. Then why did you argue?"

"Argue? What would we argue about?"

Rigsby cut in. "We were informed that you and Mr. Randall recently fought over some detail involving a new car that Mr. Randall was working on, the…" He consulted the notes he'd had relayed from Lisbon. "Panther X?"

Trevor Willis looked relieved. "That?"

"It wasn't a fight?"

"No, not at all! I mean, yes we argued, but it was only after a long day of setbacks and disappointments. The company's stock dipped sharply after one of our vehicles was suspected to have chronic brake failure problems and at least one person had died. Edward and I were trying to deal with that and he was working on the Panther X at the time. He wanted to use platinum in one of the components for the vehicle, insisting it would function so much better. I lost my cool and told…well, yelled at him that there was no way we could afford it, the way we were losing money. We did have words, and I heartily regret it."

"That…sounds like a fight to me." Rigsby shared a look with Cho. "And motive."

"No no no! Just the next day our stock shot up—the investigators proved that it wasn't the cars that were failing, it was substandard parts that had been installed by unaffiliated mechanics as repairs. Ventus Motors was viewed favorably for allowing the investigations and everything was back to the way it had been. I met with Edward that day and told him he could design parts to be manufactured in gold for all I cared." He laughed humorlessly and looked away. "I think that's the last real conversation we had before…"

The CBI agents looked at each other again. "We're still going to need to know where you were this morning," Cho said.

"I understand. I've been here since 5:30 a.m., getting ready for the release party for the Panther X…not that it matters now with Edward gone." He stared at the ground for a moment. "I have dozens of people who can confirm my presence for you if you'd like."

"We'll need a list, just in case."

Mr. Willis nodded. "I'll go print one out." With that, he left for his office.

"I don't think he's our guy," Rigsby said quietly after he was gone.

Cho agreed. "Neither do I."

"Better call Lisbon."

* * *

"So they resolved the dispute? And he was there at 5:30 a.m. with all those witnesses to back it up?" Teresa Lisbon stood in the quiet yet bustling lobby of the hospital, cell phone pressed to her ear. "Yeah, I'm with you. He couldn't have done it and he had no motive to have it done. Ok, thank you Cho."

She turned to Patrick Jane, who was inspecting various aspects of the bright white and bronze lobby, trying not to breathe too deeply of the overpowering smell of disinfectant around them. "Well that lead was a bust."

"Higher-up didn't do it?"

"Nope."

"I didn't think so."

"Of course you didn't."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing."

"No, no…" Patrick circled her slowly. "Something's bothering you about my statement."

"You know what? Fine, yes. If you knew that, why'd you let us waste our time interviewing him?"

"First, I never said 'knew'. I said 'thought'. It was more a gut instinct than anything concrete. Besides, if I'd told you not to, I would have been telling you how to do your job, which you hate, and your job is to investigate all leads. Now it's been investigated and shown to not be useful and you can move on."

Teresa sighed. "Ok…"

Before either of them could say anything else, a young doctor with blond hair and thick black square glasses approached them. "CBI?" he asked.

Jane pointed to Lisbon and she showed the man her shield. "Teresa Lisbon, CBI."

"Myles Bradley. I'm the doctor in charge of the young gunshot victim from your crime scene."

They all shook hands.

"How is she?"

"She's doing remarkably well, especially considering that she took a bullet to the stomach and spent hours bleeding before getting medical attention. She's a very lucky little girl." He nodded his head towards the elevators and they followed him into one, where he pushed the button for the eleventh floor. "She's still a little dazed from the ordeal and the surgery, but she's awake, breathing on her own, and comfortable."

"We really don't know much about her. What have you found?"

He frowned, clearly upset. "She's severely malnourished and has been that way for quite some time. We have her hooked up to an IV, and I don't think any permanent damage has been done. However, we did find evidence of broken bones and she has a multitude of bruises."

Teresa felt her own face tighten in anger. "She was abused."

"It definitely looks that way. Neglected, as well. I hate to think what she's seen in her ten or eleven years."

"Wait, what do you mean ten or eleven?"

"That's her approximate age, judging by the bone development shown in her x-rays."

"I saw her at that house, Dr. Bradley. She can't be more than eight, maybe nine."

"Sorry agent, but she just appears that way because of her lack of nutrition. She's definitely closer to twelve."

Teresa let the anger wash over her again for a moment. "Did she tell you her name?"

"No."

"Has she said anything?"

"That's just it." The elevator beeped softly as they reached their floor and the three of them exited and began to walk down the hallway to the left. "I don't think she speaks English."

"Really? Why's that?"

"She doesn't even seem to understand it. We ask her questions but she just looks terrified and confused."

She took that in for a moment.

"Do you have any idea what language she might speak? The hospital has a number of translators for just this purpose."

"My guess is Romanian," Patrick Jane said. "The hair, the eyes, the skin, not to mention her facial features."

"How do you know about Romanian facial features?" Teresa asked.

He ignored the question. "I don't suppose you have someone who speaks Romanian on staff."

Dr. Bradley slowly shook his head. "I very much doubt it. We have Spanish, French, Chinese, Japanese, Korean, and German…but few or no Eastern European language speakers that I know of." They stopped outside of a room. "I don't know how it'll take to find one, but I can set it in motion."

"Please do."

He nodded and lightly tapped the door handle. "This is her room. Please be brief, and gentle. I don't have to tell you she's been through a lot."

"Of course."

Dr. Bradley headed back the way they'd come and the two of them entered the girl's room.

She looked lost in the big bed, her hair and skin appearing extra dark against the brilliant white of the blankets and pillow. An IV trailed to her arm and a monitor line was clipped to her finger. Now that she'd been cleaned up, they could see a dark bruise on one cheek. She looked up as they approached her, still scared, but with a bit of recognition in her eyes.

Lisbon slowly and carefully pulled a chair near to her bed and sat down. "Hey there," she said quietly. "My name's Teresa, and this is Patrick." She pointed to her partner. "Do you remember us?"

She didn't respond and just kept looking from one to the other.

"Can you tell me your name?"

She stared.

Teresa was in the midst of thinking up a new strategy when her phone rang. "I'm sorry," she told the little girl. "I need to step over there for a minute, but my friend Patrick will stay with you, ok?"

She and Patrick switched places and then she went to stand by the window.

Patrick Jane leaned in towards the child. "Hey." When he got no response, he continued, "That's ok. You don't have to talk. I know something bad happened to you today. You probably saw some very scary stuff, huh?"

She still didn't respond, but she looked less fearful as he laid a hand on the blankets very near her own hand and repeated, "It's ok. We're here to help. I promise."

The CBI agent watched Jane and the girl for moment before she picked up her phone and answered, "Lisbon."

"Hey, it's Van Pelt."

"What do you have for me?"

"Big news."

"That would be great."

"Well, it is…and it isn't."

"Talk to me."

"I finally deciphered this one type of entry that appeared at regular intervals in Lydia's planner. It's the initials to her bank. She went there every third Tuesday of the month. I thought that was a little odd, considering she didn't have any incoming funds."

"What did you find?"

"I called the bank and found out that she has a safety deposit box there and every Tuesday she deposits a stack of papers into it. So I took a little field trip down there and had them open it for me."

"What did you find?"

Even through the phone, Lisbon could detect the same anger she, Jane, and the doctor had expressed just minutes earlier. "Turns out Mrs. Upstanding Housewife was running a human smuggling operation."

"_What?_"

"Names, dates, ages, genders, countries, flights, and amounts. She's been bringing children into this country illegally from poor Eastern European countries for years to serve as domestic _slaves_ for wealthy people. She's made an obscene amount of money at it too. Way more than enough money to kill over."

Teresa ran a hand through her hair in frustration. "You're sure about this?"

"Absolutely. Apparently she thought there was no reason to write in code as long as the paperwork was hidden at the bank."

"This does make certain things make sense…"

"There's something else."

"What?"

"There's an entry here about a 'shipment' from a little over two years ago that's written all over and scratched out in places. It's hard to tell, but it looks like something went wrong."

"Like what?"

"I can't tell you yet." Grace paused on the other end of the line. "But I can tell you the name of the little girl she had working for them, the one you and Jane are interviewing."

Teresa tightened her grip on the phone, hopeful for anything more they could learn about their innocent victim. "What is it?"

"Nataliya Tarasov."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope you all enjoyed the update! I actually think this may be the best one out of all of my recent updates! (It's not the other stories' fault, though: their action/big reveals happen to be in another chapter) Please review if you can and thank you so much for reading!


End file.
